It's Just A Magic Trick
by DragonFire0102
Summary: It's been 2 months since the infamous Fall, and John Watson is still dealing with the aftereffects. Just a short one-shot.


**" _It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."_**

His head ached. As much as Henry's drinking problem had been subject to years of family issues, he just couldn't help himself last night. One glass of wine turned into two, turned into three, turned into 12. It was only a matter of time before he slipped, just as his sister had done all those years ago, and now, staring at the clutter under his bed, cheek to the cool floor, the flame of self-hatred sparked, consuming him until all the doctor could see was white.

2 months, 1 weeks, 5 days. It's a wonder how he lasted this long. 2 months. 2 months since that day where he received the last call he'd ever hear from Sherlock. The doctor couldn't stand the thought of it now, the lifelessness in his friend, the blood, the jaw of despair seizing his heart until the beat was the only thing constant in his life.

He refused to believe that Sherlock was faking it all. TV reports, newspapers, anonymous users asking about the flatmate on his blog. Who could fake that? Who could look the doctor in the eye and deduce everything, from his history in the army to his family life? They tried convincing him otherwise. The charisma, the self-confidence, all things that made Sherlock, _Sherlock_ \- even the greatest actor in the world couldn't have pulled it off.

 _ **"Good-bye, John."**_

Mrs. Hudson kept the flat from being rented. He supposed it was the sentiment that counted, but when he'd gone back to gather his stuff and move out, the sight was just too much. The skull, a violin, the chess game. Images of heads in fridges, blank music sheets, silk bathrobes. Everything blurred, pounding until he'd sunk to his knees, words choking in his throat, the desperate, half-minded attempts to cry out. It would have been easier to get rid of it all, erase the existence of the god-damn sociopath all together.

The dust floated in the air, sun blocked out by the heavy curtains he'd pulled over the window earlier. The remnants of alcohol burned in his mouth as the doctor groaned, pulling himself onto the unmade bed, biting the inside of his cheek until it bled.

He'd been recommended therapists by his friends and family. _Everything will be alright,_ they told him. _You don't have to go through this alone._ But what if he wanted to? What if he wanted to face the world by himself, one lonely man against humanity.

He'd been thinking lately - after the war, his PTSD had been getting really bad, and it had persisted into 221B. Shouting in his sleep, vision blurring, the sight of Dr. Franklin after their most recent case being blown to bits. It didn't stop. It wouldn't stop.

 **" _Sherlock!"_**

One night, he'd woken up with bedsheets twisted around his neck, choking him. There was a silhouette of a man leaning over him. The doctor panicked, throwing punches and about to snap the man's neck. The only thing stopping him after was that was the calm and collected voice of his flatmate. _John, John. It's just me. One of those nights again, is it?_ That's one of the few times the doctor remembered Sherlock being… well, almost normal, almost human, to him. All the constant separation between the world and the consulting detective, the carefully set walls and the aura of seclusion radiating from him. All of that disappeared with the doctor… until the fateful events leading up to the infamous "Reichenbach Fall," as the media called it.

But. He refused to see a shrink. No one could understand the way Sherlock helped him in ways he didn't see until after the flatmate jumped. No one could stop the constant heartache, or help him understand anything.

And it wasn't because he thought himself as too strong, too unbroken to cave in and see one. Not in the slightest. It was because he was too weak, too scared to set foot in the world and dare to see anything but Sherlock. Because that's what it was everyday - he heard the snarkiness of the detective's voice in every whisper of the wind, dark coats in dark alleys, the thrill of the chase echoing in every solemn footstep.

He got dressed slowly, popping open a bottle of headache-relieving pills that had earned a permanent place on his bedside table. He swallowed two, resisting the urge to down it all in one go. Standing up, joints protesting, he threw on his coat and shoes and headed to the door. But not before stopping to open the desk drawer, revealing the handgun inside.

 **" _Let me in, he's my friend."_**

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. The five stages of grief carefully noticed by centuries of losses, neatly slotted into periods of emotion. He wasn't sure which category he was "supposed" to be in, but it didn't matter. The first four mixed together. The doctor couldn't even distinguish them, swirling, bubbling in the pit of his stomach. And as he stared at the cool metal, the sound of a gunshot feeling more and more appealing, he shut the drawer and walked out.

It's been a while since he turned onto Baker Street. The familiarity of it all almost made him throw up, but he soon stood in front of the door, a knot gathering in his throat. How many times had he and Sherlock burst out of their flat, hailed a cab, and went off onto another crime scene? How many times had he walked to the door, food in hand, when the detective opened it up and they were off once more, chasing hypotheses and murderers?

He reached out with an involuntary giggle, fingers brushing against the door knocker. The feeling of it gave way to more emotions and memories. Wouldn't it be silly to knock? The doctor could almost imagine, Sherlock stepping out with a careless click of his tongue. _Finally, John, where were you? I'm almost done with the analysis of the victim's severed finger, and don't you give me that look, the Yard's evidence team probably won't miss it…_ Oh, how he missed chastising the detective, even if his flatmate held no remorse whatsoever. Before he could stop himself, he lifted the knocker, noticing how the weight seemed heavier than ever, and hit the door firmly, twice.

And… nothing. What was he expecting? Those who die stay dead. Those who are 6 feet under will never leave.

 ** _no no no it can't be no no NO HOW COULD YOU this isn't how it's supposed to end_**

He set off, scolding himself, when something caught his eye. A receding figure across the street, nearly a few blocks away, dark coat and all, moving swiftly. Without hesitation, without even a moment of thinking, the doctor ran.

 _Please._ His breath caught, and he cursed himself for last night's mistake. _Sherlock?_ The figure was blurring in his vision. _You absolute git._ Step, step, stumble, step. _Who do you think you are, faking your death?_ Engines roaring, people talking, the softness of rain beginning to drizzle down. _Of course, Sherlock Holmes: world's greatest consulting detective._ Turn, and…

The figure was gone. He groaned, hand on his forehead. Maybe he should check himself in to the nearest mental hospital, seeing things that didn't exist.

Remember the first time you met him?

 _Afghanistan or Iraq?_

 _Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other._

 _The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street._

Violin, yeah. Right. Because the dead bodies, the laboratory, and the crime-solving addiction wasn't enough. No, it had to be the bloody violin!

You're just so selfish, aren't you, Sherlock? You had to prove you were the only one clever enough to solve those cases, you get off on the high of it. You, with your stupid smirk and your absolute lack of humanity. Why did I ever move in? Why did you ever let me into your life? All these years and I've been blind to see it. To see what you've done to me.

What was going through your mind, right before you jumped? Did it feel good, to stand on nothing? Was the fall your only solution?

Why did you hurt all those you care about?

Or did you even care in the first place?

How could you

How could you live with yourself

How could you leave me

All those years. All those years, saving people's lives. And yet.

You couldn't save the one life that mattered.

* * *

 **Hey, children! It's been a while. I don't know if anybody still reads me. I have half a mind to delete all my other stories. I was just wondering if you all are still around. Since my last activity, I've been introduced to Sherlock and Supernatural, so obviously I've changed quite a bit. Today is the first time I've logged in for nearly 2 years. So. Enjoy this little bit and I'll see all of you in a while.**

 **-DragonFire0102**


End file.
